


she's dressed like a sonnet

by alynshir



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Baisemain, Dress, F/F, fancy schmancy, leliana/marjolaine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynshir/pseuds/alynshir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marjolaine never was patient, but this time Leliana knows it was worth the wait</p>
            </blockquote>





	she's dressed like a sonnet

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Dragon Age.
> 
> Set before Leliana's Song.

Baisemain Marjoliana

The dress slips and scratches at your skin. It is an odd fabric, you think, cold against your flushed skin and of unfamiliar roughness. Yet, it is quite sturdy as well, and does not wrinkle under your unsteady, uncertain hands - a dependable cloth. Less than top notch to your eyes, but then, you are more sophisticated than the common shopper.

"Leliana, are you done in there?" her voice comes from outside the door, its cadence marred with impatience. "We are going to be late, and if we are late I refuse to take the fall for it."

You nearly resist the urge to roll your eyes before you remember that she cannot see through walls.

"I will be right there," you say, glancing towards the mirror. You see only a fleeting glimpse of a young woman with soft firelight hair brushing amber flecked shoulders before you hear the door open and you turn to face it, the skirts of the dress swishing around your bare ankles.

She stands in the entryway, her hand clutching the knob on the door with that limp sort of intensity one gains when they have forgotten halfway through what they were supposed to have been doing. She looks beautiful, striking in the clothes that she usually dislikes - a doublet, embroidered with smoke and autumn, made for a man but tailored to fit a woman precisely, pants that have the expensive shimmer in each thread. Her hair is done up for once, pinned into a sleek coil atop her head; the inky locks twinkle with stars of crystal pins. She is dressed like a sonnet right out of the most renowned minstrel's manuscripts, she is splendid, she is breathtaking, yet you are enraptured completely by her expression.

You do not think you have ever seen Marjolaine so completely surprised before.

Her expression is slack, her hostile words faltering on her lips as they part into a nearly comical 'o' shape. Her eyes are widened - really, really widened this time, not in a simpering doe-eyed way that you are used to seeing - and they are locked on you, absorbing every inch of your image like she has never seen you before in her entire life.

And if the moment could not get any more startling, she issues the one sound you never, ever thought you would hear from her.

"Uh..."

It is a completely flabbergasted, blank-minded sound, and looks completely wrong coming from someone who you know to never be blank-minded. 

"Is there something wrong?" you ask after a moment, eyeing your completely stunned mentor curiously. Your hands twist nervously in the folds of your skirts. 

She shakes her head slowly, and then her honey-gold eyes snap to yours and she is suddenly Marjolaine again, all wry smiles and devious eyes. Something different is present, yes, but when she steps towards you and offers her hand, you take it readily. After all, this is most definitely a good difference, you can feel it in your bones.

"Enchanté, ma chérie," she says, her voice husky and flushed in your ears like dark maple syrup. She leans forward and slowly, as you watch, presses her lips to your hand. They are soft and - dare you apply the word to her, she who is irreligious - reverent against your skin, and her eyes never leave your face. When she stands tall once more, you see a strange sort of sparkle in her eye.

"You are such a pretty thing," she cooes. "You are my pretty thing. I am a very lucky woman, no?"

She does not expect you to respond, and you do not. She turns away from you, and then glances over her shoulder with a mischievous expression.

"Come, my princess, the ball awaits," she says, and you are not sure if she is mocking you or being sincere. It is always a fine line to tread with Marjolaine. You decide to take the leap, though.

"Does this make you my prince?" you answer, batting your lashes and letting your lips curve up into a smirk to match hers. She chortles, a close-lipped humming sound that reminds you of a dove.

"Oh, come, my Leliana, I would not stoop so low, you know I at least rival a king."


End file.
